


Defiance

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Nazis, Norway (Country), Occupation, World War II, invasion of norway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His land is invaded, but Norway screams his defiance to the winds</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defiance

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Defiance  
> Author: Zalia Chimera  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Characters: Norway, England, Germany  
> Pairing: Can be seen as Norway/England  
> Summary: His land is invaded, but Norway screams his defiance to the winds

Norge is by the sea, the mud dug around his bare toes as he peers over the edge of the cliff and down at the crashing waves below. Salt spray hits his face and soaks into his uniform; he can taste it on his lips, familiar as breathing. The sea is a constant for him. It has always been there, lapping at the rugged shores of what became his land, and it will be there long after he has ceased to be more than a memory. He knows it almost as well as he knows his land and his people. 

He does not turn when he hears footsteps approaching. He already knows who it is. “You are a long way from Oslo, Tyskland,” he says flatly. “Should you not be consolidating your victory?” Part of him, long since near buried, screams at the slight, rages for blood to make things right.

Tyskland, Germany stops a few feet away, he sun gilding his hair and glancing off the pins and trappings of his uniform. “You were not there. I came to speak with you.”

Norge turns slowly, raising an eyebrow at the other nation. He looked him over, taking in the full uniform, the insignia that Norge has learned to be wary of. “What is there to speak about when you are hanging your flag in my capital?” He relishes the uncomfortable look that appears on Tyskland's face. “Do you think that I am afraid of you?” he asks, letting the faintest touch of scorn enter his voice.

Tyskland, blinks and looks puzzled, so much like a child that Norge wants to laugh. There's a little boy standing in front of him in a man's body, his uniform neatly pressed, a cross at his throat, and it's this child who is trampling his land beneath his jackboots, killing Norge's people.

He doesn't laugh, keeps his expression carefully blank. It isn't difficult he supposes. Danmark always tells him that he has the same range of expressions as a dead fish. It isn't true but maybe Tyskland will find him as difficult to read as that idiot.

That idiot who surrendered with barely a fight to keep his people from war, and part of Norge wonders if he should have done the same because there is a sick feeling in his stomach and the sleeve of his jacket is stained with spots of blood; he's been coughing since he felt the first feet on his soil and he doubts that the coppery taste will be leaving his mouth soon.

“I did not come to make you fear me, Norwegen,” he says awkwardly, fixing him with an intent gaze.

“You came as an invasion force. That is not usually a tactic of benevolence.” He bites his tongue to keep the 'boy' from sliding from between his lips. It will not help. Children are cruel.

“It won't be for long,” Tyskland insists, sounding so earnest that it makes Norge want to vomit. How can a Nation be so blind? “Until Großbritannien realises the error of his ways and negotiates. It is for your protection. Your neutrality.”

He is a very bad liar, so the certainty in his voice can only mean that he truly believes this. An enemy who believes so wholeheartedly in something is very dangerous indeed. “Surely it is up to me to protect myself, Tyskland. I have been doing so for a very long time.” Longer than Tyskland has been alive, no matter how strong and proud he looks now, shoulders squared in his dark uniform. 

Tyskland meets his eyes squarely, searing blue. He seems surprised when Norge merely returns the look impassively. “I have the utmost respect for you,” he says earnestly. “You deserve more than being lead into ruin by unsavoury elements. You are pure.”

Norge narrows his eyes. The look on Tyskland's face, he has seen that before on the faces of crusaders and martyrs; it is the look of a fanatic. “I am myself,” he replies calmly.

“I can help you!” Tyskland says, fire burning behind his eyes as he takes a half-step forward. “We are kindred! I can help you find a better path.”

He wants to sneer, to bare his teeth and find recourse in savagery. He touches his forehead instead, gives a short little laugh that has no mirth in it. He smiles. “There is no kinship between our kind,” he says, and draws himself up to his full height. He is not as tall as Danmark, or as broad as Sverige, but he is old and his people are united. There is strength enough in his hands for this battle. “I am Norge who fought his brothers, who owned the seas. I am my own and I choose my own path.”

“No-one doubts your strength, Norwegen,” Tyskland says, taking another step forward, Norge matching it with a careful step backwards, “least of all me. I admire you too much. But you are forsaken! Your faithless government has abandoned you. Won't you let me help you become strong again?”

Norge regards him, and for a moment there is that flicker of desire that burns in all nations; the lust for conquest and power to subdue all enemies. He felt it once when his hands gripped a sword and he sent England screaming from his torches. Having that again, that strength to have a continent fear him, ah, it is a heady thing. 

A ship's horn swells in the distance and his expression hardens to ice. “I am not forsaken.”

“Please be reasonable, Norwegen,” Tyskland protests, a hint of a laugh on his lips that Norge hates him for. “You cannot win.”

The sun shines bright in his eyes, the time, the time!

“I have not lost.”

He takes that final step backwards, feels his toes grasp for purchase and finds none. Tyskland shouts and lurches forward, reaching for him. Their fingers brush and he could catch hold of them, if he so wished, take that hand and let himself be dragged back to land and to stability.

He knocks Tyskland's hand aside and watches his eyes widen as Norge falls backwards, smiling, towards the crashing ocean.

\----------

The pain is the first thing that he notices, the cold is the second. They both throb, sink deep into skin and sinew. He recognises distantly, the feeling of water in his lungs, and he rolls over, coughing and vomiting up bile and stale seawater. It stinks and he cannot help but grimace and try to drag his sodden weight away from the mess.

“My, such delicate sensibilities you have now, Norway.”

The voice is amused, but there is an edge of worry beneath the humour, a sharp grating tone. Norge laughs and it leaves him as a harsh cough instead. There are hands on his shoulders, painfully warm compared to the cold-wet of his skin, and they roll him over onto his stomach and soothe along his back until the coughing subsides and his lungs feel clear again. He uncurls, ignoring his aching lungs.

“England,” he says quietly, opening his eyes and meeting those of the nation standing above him. His navy uniform is water-stained, his face drawn and tired, but he looks unharmed. He permits England to help him up and wrap a thick rough blanket around his shoulders to stymie the shivering.

“You're a damn fool for that stunt,” England says, lips curving into a grim smile as he guides Norge towards the narrow berth in the cabin. “We nearly didn't find you.”

“It made my point adequately,” Norge replies as calmly as though he had done nothing more than hold a placard in protest. He can feel the floor roll with the waves. A ship. “What's our bearing?” he asks. England snorts and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are dark ringed. 

“Shetland,” he says. “Not many other places in Europe I can head at the moment. You might have noticed.”

Norge makes a non-committal noise, thinking of the stretches of ocean which are closed to him now, his own seas. Thinks of Danmark who didn't have such an option open to him. He pulls the blanket around himself more tightly, trying to stave off the bone deep weariness which threatens to sink into his bones. “What of my King? My parliament?” It will all be for naught if they are stranded in his land. He cannot flee alone and he does not relish the thought of returning to Oslo and Tyskland, tail between his legs, becoming his puppet after screaming his defiance to the winds.

“Safe in London by now, I'd hope,” England says and his expression shows a hint of genuine good cheer for the first time. It lifts some of the weariness from his face, makes him look as though he doesn't believe that all is lost. “They got to a ship before Germany and his could get to the ports.”

Norge nods, closing his eyes in silent relief, as much as he can allow himself to display. He feels some of the terrible war-tension seep out of him, enough for him to feel exhaustion creeping in. They are free and for now, that is all that matters, but the encounter with Tyskland has left him drained. He hates the flicker of doubt that flares with every twinge of pain; another flag not his own being raised. 

There's a call from above; it sounds like land in the rough accent of England's older brother. It's confirmed when England wrenches open the door. “We're there,” he says and Norge feels some knot in his gut uncurl with the news.

He pulls himself to his feet, forcing water-numbed limbs to move, and it wasn't this difficult once, it wouldn't have been a concern once, back when the seas were his. 

“You don't have to come,” England protests, but cuts himself off when Norge looks at him. He feels a certain satisfaction at the way England's throat bobs nervously, the widening of his eyes. Norge remembers that look too well, but then it had been lit by the glow of burning buildings and flaming torches and England had been so much smaller.

The ship is not large, the deck only a floor above them and he realises how fortunate he is that England had a place for him to recover alone, instead of coughing seawater onto the deck. The people are not navy, but craggy faced fishermen more used to the treacherous North Sea crossing. They barely pay Norge any mind as he walks towards the railing, finding the rolling gait of a sailor returning to him, and he fancies that in their faces and limbs he can see the strength of his own warriors from more years ago than he cares to remember.

There are islands in the distance, specks of dark land against the clouds. England points to them, although Norge does not think that he could ever forget the sight of that land. “Megenland,” he says, the word falling from his tongue as though it had never left him. A grim smile appears on his lips when England flinches at the old name. 

“We're going to run ships from here to Norway,” England says. His grip on the railing is white-knuckled. “Send spies and supplies.. I know that. We're not giving up on you. Not now, not ever.”

“My people will resist,” Norge says with steel-hard certainty. He stares forward, always forward, and the islands loom closer on the horizon; craggy and inhospitable and he smiles the smile which had once made men flee in fear. “It will do.”

\----------

England is late.

Norge loosens the collar of his coat, finding the chill the people of London bundled up against a pleasant change to his own icy climate. He leans back against one of the podiums of Trafalgar Square, watching the bustle of people around the square as they prepare for tonight. He's watched it all before of course, and yet he never tires of it, this ceremony between them. 

“Ah, sorry I'm late Norway. The economy doesn't wait, mores the pity.”

England is smiling as he hurries over, happier than Norge normally sees him, even with the economic 'flu that's going around Europe faster than the plague ever did. He's wearing a red scarf and gloves along with his trench coat, and Norge knows that he has knitted them himself. He recognises the stitching from Christmas gifts older than this ceremony. He just nods in response and starts walking. England falls into step beside him. They walk around the area set aside for the ceremony tonight, watching as they raise the tree and hang the lights. It's all very organised, but they've had time to perfect it. Seventy years worth, or near enough.

“It's a beautiful tree this year,” England says, the light catching on his hair and skin and Norge cannot help but compare his appearance to that time. Even with his economy in such a state, he looks vibrant and healthy.

“It is a gift,” Norge replies, and in his mind that is enough to explain everything England should need to know. 

England makes a noise of agreement, turning to watch as the lights flicked on and off again to test them. It is a companionable silence, and Norge wonders whether it is a relief for England. Norge has never understood the need that some Nations have to fill each second with noise and talk. They walk the perimeter of the square that way, companionable and comfortable as they rarely are otherwise.

“I do enjoy it,” England says finally, as they head away from the square and into the city. There's a café there that they've visited every year since '53 and Norge would not be here if tradition didn't mean something. “The tree I mean,” he adds, as though Norge couldn't follow his train of thought without explanation.

“I would hope so,” Norge replies, the shade of a smile on his lips. He doesn't go to this trouble to see England miserable. It isn't that sort of reminder. 

“I wonder sometimes,” England begins, uncharacteristic hesitance in his voice, “if it hasn't become too much celebration, if people remember what this is for. A symbol which has lost all meaning.”

Norge pauses for a moment. He can hear the strain of carols from the square behind them, ringing out into the night. It is a place full of light and joy, but in his mind at least, he can see it black and bleak and empty, each light in the city blotted out. It makes an uncomfortable shiver work its way down his spine. 

He gives a soft huff of breath, a slight shake of his head. “We remember for our people,” he says with confidence born of long years and hardship. “It is what we're for and that is perhaps enough.”


End file.
